


Yesterday's Pupil

by icearrows1200



Category: Finding Dory (2016), Finding Nemo (2003)
Genre: Gen, Humanized, One Shot, PTSD, Post-Movie, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 15:19:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icearrows1200/pseuds/icearrows1200
Summary: "Today is Yesterday's pupil." But Yesterday is a cruel and vivid teacher, which makes everything all the more complicated for Hank, who just wants to forget.





	Yesterday's Pupil

Long-term substitute teacher. Hm. More like substitute babysitter. But if a babysitter substitutes for the parents, and  _ he’s  _ substituting for the babysitter, then is he a substitute substitute? It’s an odd job, and Hank is never sure if he’s doing it right, but then again--no one has stopped him.

Whatever. He shouldn’t be picky. Work is work and at the end of the day he can pay rent and put dinner on his tiny kitchen table. Food in Australia isn’t much different from what they had in California, but hospital food tends to be universal so his taste buds had practically died during his year there. Now  _ that’s _ a violation of human rights, what with eighteen different variations of cooked potatoes and meat made primarily out of ground soy meal. In retrospect, Cleveland wouldn’t have been any better.

But he shouldn’t be thinking of what has  _ been _ or even what could have been. The past is a perilous place, far more a cloudy mystery than the future. The only thing clear is the present. 

Come home from work, eat, read, sleep. On good nights he sleeps dreamlessly, because dreams are more treacherous than memories, something that no amount of booze can drown. They run wild, loose, out of control. It’s terrifying.

Wake up. Eat. Go to work. What gives that lug Mr. Ray the right to quit work for a family reunion anyway? Seems a little self-indulgent. 

“You have your teaching license, Hank?” Someone (probably Dory, but everyone has started to run together) had gasped when he had let it slip in the abridged and heavily censored version of his life story. “What a coincidence! We need a teacher!"

And that had been that. The kids aren’t too bad; a little rowdy, though. It’s all he can do to keep them from bouncing off the walls when he turns his back on them, but he tempers his nerves because truly--he knows they don’t mean any harm. In fact, Nemo’s a particularly good student, really bright, always asking questions. He has this unquenchable thirst for anything and everything about the ocean, and when Hank runs out of answers, he drags the kid (actually, the kid drags  _ him _ ) to the library and helps him check out a stack of books, carrying them when they’re too heavy.

The spitting image of his father, Nemo is never shy, but always polite; he’s fiercely brave, and yet always cautious. A perfect son, and Hank hopes Marlin knows it. 

Hank never had any kids of his own because bearing children involves a level of intimacy and closeness he doesn’t think he could ever quite withstand. And kids are only cute when they’re sleeping or being quiet. Otherwise, they’re so  _ loud _ , running and screaming day and night, outside and inside. But, oh, he knows what it’s like to run with his heart in his throat, to hear screaming, to feel the echo of death when the ground explodes right in front of his own feet. 

And if those  _ damn kids  _ weren’t so loud all the time, maybe it would be easier to forget. For Christ’s sake, he  _ got  _ his teaching license to avoid the draft but no one was merciful enough to hire a young man at such a prime age, not when he could be carrying a machine gun instead of a stick of chalk.

With a sharp  _ thud _ , the book hits the ground. Hank’s heart jumps; his eyes shut.

Nemo bends over to pick up the book. Something big and blue: maps of oceanic ridges. “Sorry, Hank,” he apologizes, tucking the book under his arm. “I didn’t mean to drop it.”

“I know you didn’t, kid,” Hank says honestly, reopens his eyes and basks in the silence of the library. 

There is a brief moment of that pure silence, but Nemo breaks it. “Hank, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. No guarantee I’ll answer, though.”

“How did you lose your arm?”

The kid, clever as ever, has figured it out. But this is not as simple as putting two and two together. This is more complicated, requiring an order of operations. An old man minus one arm, multiplied by a predisposition to always being alone, all divided by the fact that, though his arm had long since healed, he had spent innumerable days in a hospital.

“What if I asked you what was wrong with  _ your  _ arm?” Hank snaps, and instantly regrets it.

But Nemo is not at all fazed, glancing at his own arm and then back at Hank. “It’s a birth defect. I’ve had it my whole life.” 

Figures. His bad arm is as much a part of him as his eyes or his hair and if he never had a fully-functioning arm, he can’t miss it. Without a stigma, it makes the kid all the more unique. If Hank didn’t know any better, he’d be jealous. 

“Yeah, um. Sorry, kid. I guess I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Nemo assures. A smile works its way onto his lips. “You know, you and my dad are pretty similar.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, you’re both kind of grumpy, to start with,” Nemo grins, setting the book on a nearby table. His expression twists and turns sour. “But… you know that my mom died, right? When she was having me. I had a twin sister, too, but she didn’t make it, either.”

Hank had gathered as much. Details such as childbirth and a stillborn sister are new to him, of course. But Nemo doesn’t look a thing like Dory, so he knew right away she wasn’t his mother, at least biologically. And try as he might, he really can’t ever pinpoint the nature of Dory and Marlin’s relationship. Lovers? Platonic life partners? (They live together, sure, but Marlin’s the most unaffectionate man he’s ever met. Besides himself.) Not to mention, Marlin doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of guy to divorce, so really only one option remained.

Uncomfortable, Hank tries to brush him off. “You’ve got a tragic backstory, kid.”

“Well, I think it scared my dad--I  _ know _ it scared him,” Nemo continues, “because he never talks about her. Actually, I don’t think he  _ can _ . I know better than to ask, but I think that maybe if he  _ were  _ to talk, it could help him.”

Hank chews on his lip, studying Nemo silently. The library is desolate and will close in ten minutes and then he can go back to his tiny, empty, perfectly lonely apartment.

Arms folded at his chest, Hank huffs and glances around the room, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “And you think that if I talk with your dad, both of us might feel better?”

“Yes, because--”

“Listen, kid, here’s where you’re wrong: I don’t have anything to talk about. No one could possibly--” he heaves an agitated sigh, shallow in his lungs. With a frantic glance around the library to ensure that no one is nearby, he lowers his volume to a hiss. “I spent a  _ year _ in the hospital and I’m no better than the day I walked in.  _ Nothing _ can make me better, you hear me?  _ Nothing _ .”

That did it. That broke the kid. His lip quivers, he looks at his feet. A classic case of  _ but I was only trying to help _ . Too bad. He doesn’t want any help. He wouldn’t know what to do with it.

“Let’s go,” Hank grumbles. “The library will close soon.”

Agreeing with the solemn silence of a nod, Nemo checks out the book and follows Hank to the car. Once the boy is beside him in the passenger’s seat, he presses the key into the ignition and turns it, the old engine sputtering to life. The AC roars with chilly life and the radio mutters incoherent static. The car tunes itself like an orchestra in octaves, but it is in a key that sets his nerves on edge. So off goes the radio, down falls the AC to  _ low _ and the gear shifter into reverse.

Just as the car is pulling out of the parking lot, Hank gives in.

“A landmine. That’s…” he clears his throat. “That’s how I lost it.”

In his peripheral vision he sees Nemo’s eyes widen into big, frightened circles.

“I was actually pretty lucky,” Hank persists. “The other guys, not so much. There were a lot of them….” Hank pauses for a minute until they stop at a traffic light. “Some of them died, and it wasn’t uncommon for those kind of explosions to knock out your legs. But me-- I was at a far enough distance that they could send me home in almost one piece, minus one arm.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not for me, anyway. Be sorry that any of it ever happened.” Hank swallows thickly. There’s a knot at the base of his throat. “Forget it. You’ll learn about it in history class someday. It’s not exactly a topic for kids.”

They cross the intersection in a blissful silence. Nemo is actively searching for words in that ever-curious mind of his. Curiosity killed the cat, and so he hopes that in answering Nemo’s question, he hasn’t shattered that unyielding interest. 

But there’s relief, too. Maybe it will only last a day, but that’s more than enough solace for now. He feels guilty that a ten-year old now shares his burdens, and yet… he feels less alone all the same. For once he doesn’t mind the company.

“I’m glad you told me, Hank,” Nemo finally responds. “Even if I don’t really understand.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first. Nobody gets it. Not even me sometimes. But for the record,” he takes his eyes off the road for a half a moment to give Nemo an offhanded smile. “I’m kinda glad I told you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this comes from the touch tank scene in Finding Dory. While watching, I noticed that the children's fingers hitting the tank floor resembled a mine field. That, plus Hank cowering in the corner and his characterisation during the rest of the film led me to this conclusions. Humanized, of course. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.


End file.
